


Even Tempers

by manic_intent



Series: Clockwork Soldiers [4]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Light BDSM, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt: Bond gets kidnapped, and it's Q's turn to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Tempers

**Author's Note:**

> For mycatisanazispyandineedhelp. :) Hope you like it!

I.

James' Christmas 'present' to Q involved getting resoundingly kidnapped, what with the thorough devastation in his flat by way of shattered furniture, a dozen witnesses in the same building who testified to hearing muffled bursts of gunfire, and liberal bloodstains, some of it James', all of which were not conducive to the quiet holiday period that Q had been looking forward to.

Given 007's admittedly impressive track record with regards to freeing himself from captivity, M had been rather less inclined to treat the kidnapping with the priority it deserved, in Q's opinion, preferring instead to focus his attention on Syria. Q spent a tense and miserable two weeks pulling overtime, all the while half-expecting the lifts to admit James at any moment. 

As such, also in Q's opinion, he had been rather within his rights to take holiday leave immediately after the urgency in the Syrian problem had been resolved, and had been somewhat annoyed to find it denied. 

M was wearing a beleaguered expression when Q let himself into his office, his hands curled over the rests of his chair. "Q."

"I'm entitled to leave, sir," Q never really saw the point of small talk in an office situation.

"We can't afford to spare you at the moment."

"Can't, or won't?"

M sighed. "Don't be difficult, Q. This is for your benefit."

"Being denied statutory leave is a _benefit_?" 

"You're going to go after 007," M stated bluntly. 

"No, I'm going to spend my accumulated leave lying on a sunny beach in Ibiza," Q growled. "Of _course_ I'm going after 007."

"And you think that you can do better than MI6?"

"To put a rather blunt point on it, _yes_." 

M sighed again, rather more noisily this time, and closed his eyes briefly. "Let me assure you that MI6 is doing its utmost with regards to the matter of 007."

"Oh? I shudder to think what MI6's idea of a 'token effort' might be then, _sir_."

"And you feel that 007 won't be able to handle the situation by himself?"

"Let's just say that I have rather _personal_ experience of 007's occasional inability to take care of himself, M."

"You're going to be stubborn about this?"

"If you don't allow me to take leave, I'm taking it anyway," Q retorted flatly, "The difference is, I'll be emailing you a resignation letter instead of a request form. Take your pick."

"And you think that your obvious emotional attachment to 007 is professional?" M frowned severely at him, but Q refused to back down, clenching his fists.

Some time ago, he'd told 007 that he would give the infuriating man what he needed, as long as he needed it, and Q supposed that at some point in time this assurance had expanded a little out of its original ambit. He wasn't a machine, by any means. He _did_ care. More than he had originally intended to, certainly; with patience and obstinate persistence, 007 had gradually started to worm his way into Q's usual routine, until he had settled into Q's life with a fascinating degree of blatant and possessive self-entitlement.

In a way, Q supposed that this has somehow become the most normal relationship he has ever had.

"I could resign," Q noted mildly, "At which point I suspect that the question of professionalism will be fully academic."

M glowered at him over the desk, but he had little on the old M's ability at intimidation, and Q folded his arms, waiting it out. "Q…"

"I'll make it easier on you," Q relented a little. "I presume that the kidnapping was intentional. Yes? 007 was meant to be caught."

M settled into his chair, eyebrows arching, and his dry, "I can't imagine how that might have happened," had a touch of wry amusement to it. 

"Surely two weeks is sufficient time for an extraction to be processed?"

"Only if the agent in question requests for an extraction, Q. His business may not yet be finished."

"Or it might be terminally finished," Q retorted, "SPECTRE isn't known for their gentleness and consideration towards their prisoners."

M managed to look grudgingly impressed. "You've done your homework." 

"Old habits, sir. At least," Q conceded, when M's frown visibly deepened, "Let me ascertain whether he's still alive."

"No heroics," M instructed quietly, caving in. "You're not a field agent, Q. Remember that."

"Oh, I'm sure that it won't come to that," Q said dismissively.

II.

SPECTRE hadn't been very clever about their computer security - they'd made some upgrades since the last time Q had nosed around their systems, but those were easily circumvented. Q took a fortifying sip of his tea, and sat back against the headboard of his bed the moment he managed access.

Now to find 007.

Locating 007 took somewhat more time; SPECTRE had annoyingly chosen to be somewhat more clever about their prisoner, and he wasn't even in their system. Almost as though they had been prepared to be hacked. Q settled himself down to a long day sifting through SPECTRE's various detention centres and prisoner logs, and after four cups of tea, instant noodles, and sundown, he was none the wiser. 

Deciding to change tack, Q snooped around clearance levels, and remotely accessed the computer belonging to the SPECTRE member with the highest security clearance - presumably the faceless, reputedly ruthless leader known as Number One. Number One's terminal was starkly empty of clutter, and it took somewhat less time to locate an encrypted video. 

Q managed to watch about ten minutes of the slightly grainy video before he'd had to shut it off, his hands clenched over his keyboard, and forced himself into a breathing exercise to calm himself down. Getting angry wasn't going to help anyone. 

There were two more horrific videos, and Q forced himself to watch the last one, timestamped only two days ago, just to see if James was alive at the end of it. There was something frighteningly insane about how blithe James was to having his fingers broken one by one, about the blank stillness of his brilliant blue eyes, as though he was _bored_. Or just waiting.

James' torturers turned away when James was seemingly unconscious from pain, stripping off bloodied gloves and speaking to each other off-camera, first in English, then in French. Parisian accent, Q noted, straightening up, then he caught a reference to lunch somewhere on Rue Saint-Honoré. Paris. James was in Paris.

And, incredibly, on screen, James had lifted his chin, looking straight into the camera, his lip curling up into a crooked and bloody smile, mouthing, _Open the door, Q_.

Presumptuous arsehole. 

Q shook his head, closing the video and bringing up the security layouts of SPECTRE's Parisian properties. He discarded two quickly, and spent the rest of the night narrowing the rest down to a building in the outskirts of Paris with multiple basement floors, listed on government records as the headquarters of a nonprofit organisation - the International Brotherhood for the Assistance of Stateless Persons. 

It was nice to know that terrorists had a sense of humour. 

Q played back the end of the video, rewatching 007's message. He brought up a command window, about to type in prompts to bypass the system and open up the doors, then he sighed, and opened up a browser window, checking for flights to Paris instead. 

So much for M's orders. Quite possibly, 007's particular brand of insanity was contagious after all.

He wasn't particularly surprised when 004 met him at the Charles de Gaulle airport, wearing an expression of disapproval and holding up a phone, falling into step beside him when Q picked up the call.

"Sir."

"Weren't you only going to check whether he was alive?" M sounded a little irritated.

"I was going to confirm my hypothesis personally, sir. And besides, I no longer work for MI6." Emailing his resignation letter to M before he had boarded the flight might have been a touch too early, come to think of it. It would have been an obvious hint to M about what Q was going to do next. 

There was another noisy sigh, then, "004 will assist you."

"Assist me, or finish whatever it is that James was meant to have been doing?"

"I should hope that both goals are one and the same," M retorted coolly. "Do you think that 007 would accept extraction unless he's completed his mission?"

M was right. Damn the 00s and their ridiculously brutish fixation on duty. "Understood, sir." 

004's expression was blank again, as he led Q out of the airport towards the car park. The 00's knifework and close combat specialist was a slim, compact and short Chinese man of indeterminable age, with short-cropped black hair sitting over a high forehead, narrow features, and large, square, unfashionably horn-rimmed glasses that were definitely cosmetic. He wore a loud yellow and orange shirt that was probably reversible into something unprepossessing, and loose fitting khaki trousers that showed no lines from the knives strapped to his legs. 

If Q recalled correctly, James and 004 had a professional relationship of neutrality and a personal relationship of mutual dislike, and if M had sent 004 along on retrieval, there was, quite possibly, some sort of rebuke in there somewhere. Personally, Q had always rather liked 004. At least he could always be counted on to appreciate smart tech. 

The car was as unprepossessing as the rest of 004 - a tiny little navy blue Citroen C3. Subtlety and stealth were 004's specialty, and Q got into the car in silence, taking his laptop out of his messenger bag and opening it up.

He briefed 004 on the location and the layout of the target building, and 004 stared at the floorplans, memorizing them carefully. "Patrol routes?" 004 asked, finally.

"Here are the intersecting patterns. And the blind spots." Q brought up an overlay over his floor plans. 

"Going to be difficult," 004 muttered, looking dour. "Not impossible. Maybe with a diversion."

"I can do that," Q noted, studying the electrical grid failsafes. 

"Try not to set all of the building on fire," 004 suggested solemnly. 

"A 00 who doesn't like explosions and mayhem? Shocking."

Identifying and waylaying cleaning staff got 004 the basic equipment for his disguise, and parked a few blocks away outside of the compound, his laptop on his knees, Q listened to 004 talk his way into the building, then worked down to the first basement level. 

"Explosions anytime now," 004 murmured, and Q fed the first line of prompts into the command window, and looked up just in time to see the third floor burst into flames. Hmm. Chemical storage area, perhaps. Distantly, he could hear the faint and muffled wail of an alarm, and he smiled to himself. 

004 moved briskly down another level, then, "Open all the doors, Q." 

"But-"

"Better diversion. Quick." 

Taking in a slow breath, Q obeyed, hoping that he hadn't just killed James in the process. On his map, James' tag seemed to hesitate, then started moving briskly, coming to a stop for a few moments, then moving on again, slowly. Killed a guard, took his weapons, Q surmised. 

"007 is on the move," Q advised. "Try not to shoot him by accident."

"Will try my best."

The 007 and 004 blips intersected on the third basement, and Q heard James state flatly, "Did M really have to send you?" 

"Is complicated," 004 replied blithely. "Number One?"

"Should still be in the building. Is it really on fire?"

"Hopefully not all of it." 

"There's a helicopter about to lift off from the roof," Q advised helpfully, peeking out from the Citroen. "Do you want me to shut it off?" 

"Shut it off," 004 instructed, then added, addressing 007, "Top floor. Wait. Please at first find some pants."

Even from the Citroen, Q could see the pitched gunfight that broke out out the top floor, and he found himself holding his breath, hands clenched on the door handle, waiting and mired in tension until there was a flat, "Clear," from 004.

"I could see that," James shot back, never particularly happy or civil when working in a team.

"Not speaking for your benefit," 004 retorted blandly. "Did we terminate Number One?"

There was a pause, then James turned over one of the bodies, and there was a rustling sound. "Body double in a face mask. _Fuck_. This is Number Two." 

"I'll start up the helicopter. There's a field to your east. I'll pick up the both of you there," Q decided, before the 00s decided to go back down and search through a burning building. 

James frowned at him when he opened the passenger seat door to the Citroen, but he said nothing, even when Q handed him a bottle of painkillers. 004 settled into the back seat, already calling M, and Q drove them towards the Charles de Gaulle in silence. 

After 004 finished his phone call, he said, "Let me out here." 

"Here?" They were almost up on a highway.

"Anywhere. I'll walk. Pull over." When Q obliged, 004 was zipping up a duffel bag in the back seat, and he slung it over his shoulder. "Need to clean up loose ends. M's orders."

James scowled from the front passenger seat. "This is my mission."

"Number One is your mission. Not smaller fry," 004 replied mildly. "I will try to pick up his trail."

"I can do that," James snapped, as visibly injured as he was, and even as Q opened his mouth to object, 004 interrupted.

"Your boyfriend resigned this morning. M is getting concerned. Hasn't accepted resignation, though. Maybe you can help." 004 smiled thinly at them, and inclined his head to Q when James turned to glare.

"Good luck, 004," Q noted dryly. He _had_ intended to quietly withdraw his resignation if he'd managed to retrieve James. Preferably without James ever learning about it.

"Q," James growled, when they were on the move again. 

"Not now." Q decided firmly, concentrating on the traffic, and James exhaled, but was silent.

III.

With his resignation withdrawn and, apparently, having never happened, Q went back to work, because the Farm still did need guidance and because nosing about in SPECTRE's servers had turned up something interesting about nuclear silos in Russia. Q pulled more overtime, assisted 003 through a delicate theft in Slovakia, and, most of all, didn't keep tabs on 007's recovery records. M was feeling touchy enough as it was.

He came home one night to 007 smoking in his kitchen, albeit with the window open, and judging from how the fire alarm hadn't gone off, Q suspected sabotage. James glanced at him when Q marched over and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, extinguishing it in the sink and turning on the vent.

"Don't smoke in my flat."

James eyed him thoughtfully, his mouth compressed in a thin line, in a plain gray shirt and jeans. His broken fingers seemed healed, tapping on the table with as much dexterity as before, and visibly, he looked just the way he'd always been. Q's perfect memory chose to bring up an image of the bloodied ruin he had seen chained to the chair, with bone fragments jutting out of his arm, and fought down a shudder. 

"Why did you resign?"

"I've withdrawn it. And before you start on a lecture about 'unprofessionalism', I've already heard it all from M, and besides, I think you'll probably have reacted the same way were you in my shoes. Though," Q added, as an afterthought, "Possibly with less subtlety."

James snorted, pushing up from the chair, and his gait was even, the limp already subsumed, setting his palms beside Q's hips against the kitchen counter. "I'm a field agent. You're not."

"You expected me to find and check the security footage. What if I hadn't, hm? What if I had listened to M, and decided that _professionally_ , it was none of my business?"

007's lip quirked up, with a wry sort of resigned humor. "You wouldn't have. But I didn't think that you would come to Paris."

"Thanks to M saddling me with 004, I wasn't in any danger whatsoever."

"And if he hadn't thought to intercept you at the airport?"

"I suppose I would have thought of some sort of reasonable intervention," Q kept his hands to himself and his voice even, assessing James' mood carefully. "I'm not a child, James. I'm capable of making my own decisions. What I want to know," he added, as James made a low, angry sound, "Is why you specifically requested M to keep me out of this from the beginning." That much had been obvious.

"Because I knew that you would try to interfere." This close, 007 smelled almost unpleasantly smoky, but Q was starting to get a little lightheaded, anyway, curling his fingertips into his palms. He had to control himself for now, at least until they'd worked off each others' ugly moods. He had to be patient, as tempting as it was to reach out now and take control.

"I'm sure that the mission could have been run more efficiently than-"

"That's for M to decide," 007 interrupted sharply. "Not you."

"And someday, if I was the one who had been taken, and M had decided that another 00 was to be assigned to locate me - if at all - would you take that kindly?"

James made a harsh, snarling sound, like a wounded beast backed into a corner, his head ducked down, and carefully, gently, Q pressed his palms to James' cheeks, drew him down, inch by inch until the kiss was more an incidence of proximity, inexorable, the first press of their lips together slow and whisper soft. He let James kiss him until fingers tracing down James' shoulders found the tension melting away, big hands clutching at his hips in return, urgent and possessive, a low keening moan bubbling shut against Q's mouth, its rumbling echo pressed against him. 

"This is a problem," James said quietly, when he finally pulled away, his arctic blue eyes a little wild, the coldness fracturing over the edges.

"Is it? I haven't noticed."

"Surely you can see it." 

"Even if the rule against fraternisation wasn't already suspended with regards to the 00s," Q pointed out, keeping his hands on 007's shoulders, "What is M going to do, fire me?"

"I can't keep having to constantly factor you into my mission protocols. I can't afford to worry about what you might do while I'm on a mission."

"And what are you going to do, James?" Q said, if more gently, stroking careful circles over James' shoulders, watching James' lips twist up, and he let out another harsh sound, jerking Q up against him. Startled, Q almost let out a yelp, but the sound was stifled against the rough crush of James' mouth, an ugly and violent kiss, as though 007 was trying to pour all his anger, all his fear and bitterness and want into him, and when he stepped back, Q staggered a little against the sink, gasping and bruised. 

"I don't need you any longer," James muttered, though he couldn't look up, and Q exhaled, folding his arms tightly over his chest. This had been a distinct possibility, as much as the reality of it seemed far more hollow than he had expected, the pit in his stomach colder.

"All right," Q noted, as neutrally as he could. "Then get out."

007's gaze snapped up, wild and angry before his training took over and the cool mask remained; he nodded ironically to Q before leaving the flat stiffly. Q rubbed at his eyes briefly once the door closed, sighed, clenched his hands again, and reached up for the cabinet for the tea box. After a moment's hesitation, he shook his head and padded over to the emergencies-only coffee machine, and filched a bottle of scotch from behind the store of coffee beans. 

People were predictable after all. Even 00s.

IV.

Life settled unevenly back to the grooves that Q had worn into time before James had barrelled spectacularly into his routine and upended it, and Q supposed that technically, theoretically, going back to work everyday like clockwork was possibly not helping matters. Allocating a different minion to 007 made it easier to avoid him, and besides, the 00s never really had to venture up to Q-branch; their equipment could be delivered straight to them, and it often was.

So as recklessly and ruthlessly as James had come into his life, he had left it, almost as cleanly, and having considered this as a very likely possibility from the very beginning, give or take the ambit and scope, Q supposed that he could only be satisfied. 

It was depressing nonetheless, which was annoying, because Q had thought himself better than that, and he endured Moneypenny's increasingly outrageously shameless overtures until he finally caved and accepted her invite for a coffee. 

"Firstly," Q told her, as they were settled into their seats at a cafe within walking distance of MI6, "If M has a problem with me, he can tell me so himself."

"He's busy," Moneypenny smiled at him, always with that catlike amusement.

"It was never going to last. Tell him that."

"I think that he's surprised that it didn't, actually."

"Of course he is," Q drawled, unamused. "James said that he doesn't need me any longer. I'll respect that."

"Do you think that he was telling you the truth?"

"He wasn't, that much was obvious. But he said it nonetheless," Q lifted a shoulder into a light shrug, "And I'll respect that. I have to, by my own rules."

"Q-"

"Eve," Q interrupted, "Even if James hadn't said what he did, we did need some… space, I suppose. We were neither both utterly in the right or in the wrong, and it was already… It was never going to end well," Q conceded, picking up his coffee when it arrived. Caffeine's placebo buzz always made him too wired for anything more than code; drinking it with Moneypenny was possibly a poor decision. "And so it didn't. Don't tell me that 007 is moping again." 

"He's trying not to," Moneypenny noted gently, "But he followed you yesterday."

"And how did _you_ know what I did yesterday?" Damn it all, was Q never going to have any privacy ever again?

"I didn't. But I could guess." 

"He has no claim on me. I can do what I like," Q shot back, rather irked at the implied accusation, "I won't apologize for seeking the company of other playmates. If James values his pride so much, he can hang himself with it." 

Q settled the minor nuclear problem in Moldova after lunch, although the intricacies stretched late into the night, and when he trudged home, he found himself calculating the possibility that James would be there, blatant and unrepentant as ever, still wrestling with the coffee machine.

A 58 per cent probability, Q decided, as he switched off his alarm system and opened the door, and the empty apartment was, uncomfortably, a disappointment. With a soft sigh, Q pulled off his bag, placing it on the table, and shrugged off his coat, and was in the process of heading over to the dressing table to remove his watch when the phone rang. 

A glance at the caller ID indicated James' new flat's home number, and Q froze, hesitating, then he sat down on the bed, picking at his sleeve. There was a 30 per cent possibility that James was in the kitchen, pacing and smoking, a 25% possibility that he was in the balcony, watching the skyline, and a 45% possibility that James was in bed, knees up, probably shirtless, hand clenched in the sheets, grim. Hunters always retreated to their dens to lick their wounds.

Predictable after all. Fairly.

The ringing petered out, then after a few seconds, it started up again, and as Q revised the James-in-bed possibility to 60 per cent when that ended, his mobile phone started to ring. Rolling his eyes and setting his phones on silent, Q padded off to shower, nursing a nascent and inchoate sense of admittedly petty irritation. James could suffer for a little while more. 

This went on for a few nights in a row, save for the one that Q spent at a club, dressed up and gloved and not particularly in a good mood, though he'd calmed himself down by the time he'd selected a playmate, and it had been rather pleasant, if forgettable, overall. And the calls stopped after that, which was just as well.

V.

Q had never been particularly fond of the impersonality of clubs, but as much as he did have other avenues, he had bored of them of late. Had he been someone given to pointless wastes of energy like lying to himself, he would have blamed his playmates, but in truth, he knew that he was simply restless. Pleasure was bland with his old partners, and he was looking for something more.

Flamboyant outfits in leather and latex had never particularly interested Q; he preferred to dress classically, in a three piece charcoal suit, with a black silk handkerchief in his left breast pocket to indicate his preferences - left for 'dom', black for S&M. He got a few odd looks from other patrons, especially with his boyish face and slim build, but he smiled thinly at them and ordered the passable house red, settling into one of the somewhat more private booths to watch the crowd. 

He didn't have long to wait - he usually never did - though he had turned down two before someone rather more acceptable slunk up to his booth; handsome and tawny blonde, grey eyes and a quick smile, strong jaw, soft hands, gold Rolex, store-bought Armani, blank handkerchief worn in a right breast pocket. A banker, perhaps, or an accountant, looking for a bit of taking down.

Simple. 

Possibly boring.

"Are you waiting for someone, sir?" American accent, probably a New Yorker, polite. Most likely in London for business, some deal that must have gone well; the banker was flushed with pleasure and confidence. He dropped his eyes quickly enough at Q's steady glance. Not the first time at a club, then. 

"For the right someone, certainly," Q kept his voice mild, disinterested, and watched the banker suck in a soft breath to control his arousal. 

Simple.

Still possibly boring.

On the other hand, so far this was the best prospect for tonight, and Q took a sip of his wine, about to direct the banker to kneel beside him when someone grabbed the banker by the shoulder and spun him around. 

_James_. 

James was visibly, coldly furious, and his flat, "Sorry, this table's taken," was threaded with the promise of violence.

The banker straightened, startled and intimidated, though he still glanced quickly over at Q, silently asking whether he should fetch the bouncers, and Q hesitated for a long moment before giving a slight shake of his head. The banker nodded at him, looking disappointed, before bowing and padding off to try his luck elsewhere. 

"Hello, James," Q said mildly. "Fancy seeing you here."

Unsurprisingly, James wasn't wearing a handkerchief, and he looked disheveled; dark hollows were smudged under his eyes, and he still smelled - stank - of cigarette smoke; although his clothes were perfectly put together, the way Q preferred it, one of the lovely fitted black Tom Ford's and an ice blue shirt that was the same colour as his eyes, buttoned up with a slender black tie looped under the starched collar. He looked dangerous and angry and extremely ill-advised, but Q could feel a pulse of lust shake through him just from looking James over, and he was glad that the club was a shade too dark for anyone to pick up colour from his cheeks. 

"Just passing through," James didn't even bother to lie imaginatively. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"If you had any requisitions that you needed to make, there's a system. Forms. Email."

"It wasn't about work."

"Then it wasn't important."

"Look," James snapped, then he took in a deep breath, and sat down beside Q on the curved leather seat, their hands inches apart, "What I said to you that day, it was a mistake."

"I recognise that."

"I wanted… I wanted to make amends."

"Still obvious so far." 

James' shoulders slumped, as all the anger and the fight seemed to drain out of him, so very abruptly, and he dropped his eyes, his hands clenching tight, and his muttered, "I'm _sorry_ ," was still forced out past gritted teeth. 

"You're sorry about walking away," Q noted idly, taking another sip of his wine, "Because you do still need me. But you're not sorry about all of the rest." 

"Would begging you to forgive me help my case at all at this point, or would I only be wasting my breath?" Under all that barely veiled sarcasm was a touch of desperation, and that was promising.

"If you wanted to spend the rest of your career with only my sanctioned interference only, then, yes. You'll be wasting your time, and mine." 

"I'm willing to work something out."

A definite harbinger of more fights in the future, Q predicted, and wavered. If he took James back, he knew that James would only become even more difficult. The ill-trained dog had scented freedom, and as much as it had disliked it and had come sniffing back, the taste of independence was only going to make it even more intractable.

On the other hand, James was probably going to retire soon, due to the mandatory cap - maybe in another year or so, if M didn't make any major policy changes. Maybe situations like this wouldn't occur again; and if M had taken the extremely broad lesson from the last instance to heart, he'd allocate future allow-self-to-be-kidnapped-and-tortured missions to the other 00s.

So. Possibly difficult, though not insurmountably. 

Definitely not boring.

When Q relaxed and sat back, James exhaled, shifting over to sink down onto his knees beside him, if with an ironic and almost cruel smile on his lips; there was only barely enough room to fit between the black glass coffee table and the couch. The ill-trained dog was all too aware of how much trouble it was, of how much trouble it _brought_. Q felt muscles bunch and tense under his fingers as he skated them over hunched shoulders to fit around the nape of James' neck, guiding James over to rest his cheek on Q's thigh, the lovely arch of his back facing the rest of the club, petting his hair as he signalled the serving staff for another glass of wine.

James was dozing off by the time Q finished his wine - from the haggard cast to his features, Q guessed that James probably hadn't slept for at least a day or so, and he was about to call the serving staff over to get them to hail a cab, to take James home and make him rest, when the act of leaning over gave him a glimpse of supple black under James' collar. 

James' breathing changed lightly when Q tipped up his collar, though he didn't open his eyes, and God - James was wearing leather around his neck, the stolen collar from Q's hidden store, under his tie, the _tease_ , the buckle snug under his Adam's apple.

When Q sucked in a slow, shaky breath, he found 007 smirking at him, insolent thing, always pushing at his boundaries, and when he waved one of the staff over, Q found himself requesting a suite instead of a cab.

VI.

James looked confused when Q instructed him to sit on the edge of the bed, though he straightened up when Q settled over his thighs, undoing his tie and tugging it off, winding the silk over his fingers for a moment before tossing it off the bed.

"Hands on the sheets," Q told James, flattening big palms over the quilt, behind his hips, "Keep them there." Simple as the command was, it was always gratifying to see how quickly James' eyes could go wide and dark with lust. 

"Q-"

"Shh, shh." Q mouthed briefly over James' lips, playful, chuckling when James shivered and tried to push for a kiss; even the brief taste was ashy enough for Q to grimace. "I should have taken us home. You need a bath." 

"Want you now," James growled, his fingers jerking to claws in the sheets, but otherwise not shifting. "I've already been patient."

"Have you?" Q challenged, curling his arms around James' shoulders, "Have you really been patient, James?"

"It's been _weeks_ ," James retorted, though a tremble rippled through tense muscle and James tried leaning over for another kiss, his gorgeous blue eyes growing a little wild, "I _need_ you."

"Better. But not by much," Q decided, when James made a raw, unhappy moan when Q straightened up out of range. "Understand this for me, James. What happens in this relationship only happens if we _both_ want it, not solely for either of our benefits. Yes?"

"Yes." 

"And, just like I will honour the colour code when spoken, so will I trust you to be mature about what you say to me. Yes?" 

There was a huff, this time, and James nodded instead of speaking. When Q arched an eyebrow, he muttered, tersely, "Yes."

"Do you still expect more of me than just an arrangement of convenience?"

The nod was sharper this time. "Yes." 

"Then," Q added wryly, as gently as he could, "You must be mature enough to treat me as your equal in all things, James. Not only where it suits you. Yes?"

As he'd thought, James balked at this. "You went above the ambit of your job."

"And I was aware of both the risks and the consequences. James," Q rubbed his palms down, to the edge of the collar, making James grit his teeth and clench his hands again, "Weren't you willing to work something out?"

"I wanted to _compromise_. This isn't compromising."

"I'll extend the benefit of communication to you if you'd do the same. No more special blackout requests to M. If you're willing to trust me to help you, then I'll support you. Otherwise, I'll do what I like."

James visibly considered this for a moment, his eyes flickering aside, then he muttered, "Fine."

There was a 78 per cent possibility that James was only saying whatever he had to just to get his way, and Q didn't doubt that everything was still going to be rocky. Still, he smiled encouragingly - baby steps - and drawled, "What are my colours?"

"Red to stop, yellow to change, green to go," James almost stuttered near the end, when Q hummed and licked up his neck to his jaw. 

"You're expecting to be punished," Q dropped the register of his voice, pressing his lips to James' ear, felt him shiver. "But you don't care what I might do to you now as long as you get a little peace at the end. Which makes anything that I might want to do to you rather pointless in the first place." 

"Besides," Q added, slowly undoing the buttons on James' shirt, "You feel that you've already been punished, that ignoring you for so long was the worst that I could already do to you. And I agree. So. No more punishments. Though you haven't quite earned anything else."

"And so," The shirt joined the tie on the carpet, as well as the suit jacket - a little irresponsibly, perhaps, but Q was hungry now, the way he usually wouldn't be, and James was all but trembling from anticipation, his hands twisting and curling over the sheets. "Let's make things simple. I want this inside me," Q squeezed the now-prominent bulge in James' pants lazily, and James let out a harsh gasp, rolling his hips eagerly into Q's grip. "But you won't be coming today." 

"Q," James bit out, then whined instead when Q murmured, "Ah, ah. Don't speak until told to." When James shook his head sharply, Q added, "Use colours if you want to stop," then conceded, "Oh, all right, what do you want to show me?" when James gave him a pleading look. 

The side table's drawer was deftly tugged open, and James sifted through the neatly arrayed toys until he located the leather cock ring, letting out a slow breath and pressing it into Q's hands. Q had to take a few breaths of his own to control himself, biting down on his lower lip, then he smiled, dangling the toy from a finger. "I don't usually like using toys on my playmates, James. You really should be able to control yourself at your age." 

When James shot him another pleading look, his jaw clenched, Q chuckled, leaning over, allowing James to lick into his mouth, kiss him hungrily and mute a plaintive moan between them both as Q trailed the snap of supple leather down James' chest to catch the edge over a nipple.

Q never believed in setting up his partners to fail, even if they wanted it; in his opinion, that usually bred bad habits and poor discipline. Besides, the compressed and strangled sound that James made when Q got rid of the belt and tugged down boxers and pants to James' knees was gratifying, and his cock was already thick and flushed dark; Q felt it pulse as he curled his fingers around it briefly and tugged.

"You tried a string of other people - men and women - when you walked away," Q mused out aloud, and met James' gorgeously wild eyes as he brought his hand back up and licked a stripe up his own palm, wetly. "Nothing worked. And you went to a club like this, on your own, but no one was remotely interesting. You needed more and you couldn't get it. That was when you tried to apologize."

James nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the flick of Q's tongue over his hand, lips parted a fraction, almost shaking with lust. 

"The next time you walk away again like this," Q added softly, mildly, "I won't forgive you." And that was a lie, as much as Q never really saw the point of lying, either. James would make more mistakes, even if he didn't mean to, worse ones, perhaps; they would fight again. High possibility. But they would come back together, not only because James needed him, but because dependence was a subtle lure in and of itself, and other people now bored Q. 

James nodded anyway, though, even if he probably sensed the lie, distracted, his hips bucking into Q's hand when it closed around him, slick and squeezing, letting out a plaintive whine and shooting a pointed glance at the dangling toy, as though Q wasn't already aware of how close he was. Grinning lazily, Q carefully pressed a nail into the leaking slit, laughed as James choked out a keening cry and jerked, a wet spurt soiling his thumb.

"Can't," James spat out harshly, his chest heaving from the effort of staying still, "Can't, too close, _yellow_ , use the _goddamned_ toy if you want me to fuck you-" 

"Shh, shh," Q petted sweating shoulders reassuringly, kissing James again until some of the tension had left him, until his fingers uncurled over the sheets. James shivered and relaxed as Q secured the cock ring snugly around the root of his cock and under his balls, and sucked Q's thumb clean when it was pressed against his mouth.

"Other than the colour code," Q added, in warning, "Don't speak again, or I'll walk out. Understand?"

James nodded, dropping his eyes, a twist curling at his mouth; James knew that Q wouldn't walk out on him, not when they were both so strung out on each other, not now. Another empty threat - such a bad habit - James was a terrible influence. Q stripped off with more care than he had afforded James' clothes, folding up his on the side table, grinning at the hungry stare that James raked him with when he turned back. Enough games for now, then.

There was always a discreet tub of lube in the drawer and condoms, and James was squirming through prep, his breaths stuttered and impatient, white-knuckled against the sheets when Q finally pushed him down onto his back and sank down, purring and tipping his head back as he guided James inside him until he had bottomed out, relished the stretch and the hot burn of friction.

It was tempting to ride James into the bed when the burn eased, but it turned out to be fun to keep it slow when it was obvious that James' self-control was fraying fast; his hips jerking out of rhythm and his cheek pressed against the sheets, teeth bared, throat working against the collar secured around his flesh. Q grinned to himself and kept the roll of his hips even and languid, letting out only the occasional indulgent gasp at the rub of James' thick cock against his prostate, and this was what he enjoyed most about what he did in bed - no need for whips and puerile tools. 

Boiled down, what Q loved most was control - over power - and watching the muscles in James' arms shift and bunch as he shook with the effort of staying still, listening to his increasingly desperate gasping cries; predictable as it all got, there was something visceral and addictive to keeping his hands on the reins, especially with someone who would fight him all the way. 

He picked up James' gun hand, bringing the digits to his mouth, grinning at the stuttering thrust of James' hips as he sucked first the thumb into his mouth, then moved on, laving the pads with his tongue and leaving a teasing nip at the tips. James' hand slipped against him when Q was done, his free hand clawed on the sheets, and Q smiled lazily as he guided James' wrist down until big fingers were curling around his cock.

There was still no real finesse to the way James worked him, but Q could feel himself growing close, anyway, felt himself falling into the brief window of absolute stillness and clarity that came on the brink of physical completion, then past, soiling James' elegant killer's fingers and digging his nails into James' arms.

Pulling off the rest of James' clothes, Q urged James to his feet and supported him over to the bathroom, settling him in the tub before tugging down the shower head. James made a garbled, shocked sound when Q switched on the warm water, though he settled down when Q squeezed soap onto his palms and rubbed it over his shoulders, keeping up a whispered soothing litany of praise until James relaxed and closed his eyes. 

James didn't make a sound at the wash of cold water at the end, or when Q gently removed the cock ring and set it on the sink, grabbed one of the thick towels to drape around James' shoulders, and wrapped his arms around it, tipping spiky damp hair under his chin. 

"Still a bloody devil," James rasped, finally, with a touch of his usual ruthless humour.

"It's what you like," Q retorted, though he nuzzled damp hair briefly and felt James' answering laugh shake through him.

VII.

James was rather more aggressive about his return into Q's personal life, and Q found himself studying the new row of shirts and suits tucked into his wardrobe with bemusement. James still had his flat, but there was more coffee in the cabinet now, a spare set of shoes at the shoe cabinet, a Walther within reach of the bed, all without Q really registering the changes. James could be subtle and patient when he needed to be, it seemed.

There was a muttered curse from the kitchen; James and the coffee machine had a variable and antagonistic relationship - and Q smiled to himself, closing the wardrobe and settling on the bed, picking up his laptop. 

He was partway through his emails when James finally gave up on getting a dose of morning caffeine, slinking back into the bedroom to curl over his back and rest his chin on Q's shoulder, his breathing slow and even, slowing further when Q reached back absently to rest a palm over a firm thigh, squeezing lightly. 

"Coffee," James prompted, though he nuzzled Q's neck instead, giving no impression that he was willing to move; and Q supposed that he wasn't surprised after all, that as painfully normal as Q had thought that this would be, he merely shook his head and smiled, drawing James' gun hand over to his lap, sliding his fingers under the sleeve to wrap them around the looped collar.

**Author's Note:**

> Forgot to add: Mental image of 004 - Jet Li. See [[clip from Expendables](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQLE7XR9Wdw)], which was an awful movie, but which I really loved because it had so many awesome movie action stars I remembered from childhood ^^;;


End file.
